I Guess It’s Too Late to Live on the Farm

but not to imagine my husband
working the land—

his shoulders lifting the hoe.

And maybe we would hire
other men too,

who might look at me and think
they could

treat me better.

Don’t they know every penis
looks about the same?

I would watch their skin
change color with the seasons.

Hand me the scythe, I would say.

But then we’d rent the big machine
that does all that work for us

because the fields would get too big,

because they would just get bigger.
All the men wouldn’t be enough—

for me either.
Get rid of them all, I would say.

The farm we never wanted,

couldn’t have,
swelling to the size of a country.

My husband’s shoulders
taken in my hands when I could

bear them. My empire.



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